


you used to say you'd never change (but that's not true)

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Coping, Coulson crying, Desperation, Early S3, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, Haircuts, Loss, Trust, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:17:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5141168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in early S3.  Short ficlet.  Daisy feels Coulson pulling away again, and does something drastic.  I tried to pack a lot of their issues into a few words.  And why haven't we ever seen Coulson crying in canon, huh?</p><p>Title from the Beach Boys' "Caroline, no."</p>
            </blockquote>





	you used to say you'd never change (but that's not true)

It's been a few days since the prosthetic.  
  
Fitz told him it was just his first go, that it could be refined.   
  
Fitz is so distracted, though, that she knows Coulson won't ask.  
  
His face is one of quiet concentration these past days.  
  
Quiet and struggling.  
  
She knows him.  
  
These rhythms, and it's just them and Mack right now.  
  
May left and didn’t come back. Bobbi is mending and stuck in the lab. Hunter is fixated on finding Ward.  
  
Mack doesn't remember what it was like when Coulson hid from her last year. How alone she felt, even with Trip's kindness and smiles there to make it seem bearable.

Even with May training her to hone her body and her focus.  
  
There was a hole, and this feels familiar.  
  
He's told her it's not her fault, and she believes he's told himself that.  
  
But how can he not see that the same thing that changed her tried to kill him?  
  
How different they are, in the end?  
  
She takes the stairs and finds him in the office standing near a table.  
  
The one with the record player.  
  
And he's shaking.  
  
“Coulson?”  
  
He turns, startled, and stares at her.  
  
After everything they've been through, she's never seen him cry.  
  
“I can't- I'm just frustrated,” he tells her, hurrying a calming breath.  
  
She feels powerless. There's nothing that can give him this back.  
  
Rather than embarrass him further with her pity, she turns and takes off.  
  
“Skye?”  
  
She hears him calling after her, but she can't look at him right now.  
  
This monstrous thing took so much from them both.  
  
Her humanity. Her parents. It tore her family apart, them being so special that Whitehall wanted to cut her mother open.  
  
His voice is gone now and she wipes at the side of her face.  
  
No one’s in the hall this late, and she makes it to her bunk as she gets through the door then starts sobbing in earnest.  
  
How can he? Be with her every day?  
  
A small voice reminds her that she knows why.   
  
No one else would've stayed. No one else has.  
  
“Skye?”  
  
So quiet, almost a whisper.  
  
He's standing in her door, with it slightly ajar, and she feels this closing in on her, like that temple, her hair sticking to her damp cheeks, she feels flushed and uncomfortable in her own skin.

“I need you to do something for me,” she tells him, standing abruptly.  
  
His face says, _anything_ , and she's made up her mind.   
  
She walks past him towards the bathroom and slides open a drawer.  
  
“Come here.”  
  
He slowly follows into the small space, staring back at her reflection.  
  
“I want you to,” she says, holding the scissors out to him.  
  
“What?” he says, seeming taken off guard.  
  
“I need to be different right now,” she explains. “It's too heavy, okay?”  
  
A tear slips down her cheek and she meets his eyes.  
  
“I'm not-“  
  
“I want _you_ to.”  
  
He nods and takes the scissors from her, and his reflection changes in the mirror.  
  
Considering her face and pulling a strand of hair between his fingers, while holding open the scissors.

 They stop just a little above where her neck and shoulder meet.  
  
He gives her an encouraging smile and then cuts the strand, letting it fall to the floor.  
  
The tears are coming easily now, but she smiles back at him reflected to her, and feels his other hand move to rest against her shoulder, steading him, like an awkward counterweight.  
  
She wants to ask him if he's ever done this before, but it feels too much like a ritual to speak.  
  
He tips her chin down and she can see her hair pooling on the ground around her.  
  
He's going faster, more assured now.  
  
She feels lighter.  
  
When he turns her to face him, she watches him concentrate, sees the intensity of his focus.   
  
Her fingers stretch out to just touch the prosthetic hand hanging by his side.  
  
She knows he can't feel it, but he freezes to look at her hand against his.  
  
And she can see him holding back.  
  
“It's okay,” she tells him, taking the scissors out of his hand as he folds himself up against her shoulder.  
  
She puts the scissors down behind her and wraps him into her arms as her shirt begins to feel damp and warm where his face is pressed against it.

His quiet crying.

He seems so small, like she might never believe he can fit against her like this.

“Coulson?”  
  
“Phil,” he says, drawing back looking at her shirt a little embarrassed.  
  
“Phil,” she repeats clearly, wiping away his tears with her thumb.  
  
His lips part like he's about to say something else, and his eyes follow her looking at his mouth. 

She wonders if he's thinking it, too. 

She’s always wondered.  
  
If she just closed the space between them, so that they couldn't hide it beneath anything else?  
  
“I should finish it,” he says, with determination.  
  
He gestures at her hair, with an apologetic tilt of his head.  
  
“Yeah!” she says suddenly, and full of movement, she turns to reach for the scissors to give them back.  
  
But he's leaned forward, reaching across her at the same time and she's leaned against the counter as her eyes stare first at the buttons on his shirt, then draw their way up to meet his gaze.  
  
His mouth is hot and wet against hers, she can taste salt mixed in with their desperate kiss, as they both hover again, waiting for the other to give. 

“I should finish this,” he says, clearing his throat, then tugging on the few remaining long strands.  
  
“Promise?” she asks, raising her eyebrow at him.  
  
“Yes,” he says with a little smile, taking the scissors in hand. 

“Definitely.”  

 


End file.
